


Some Nights, Best Nights

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [325]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Hoth (Star Wars), M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22387171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Luke has this bad habit of treating Han’s quarters like his own.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Han Solo
Series: Mental Mimosa [325]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1012767
Comments: 10
Kudos: 215
Collections: Kats Star Wars Collection





	Some Nights, Best Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Domestic.

Luke has this bad habit of treating Han’s quarters like his own. 

After dinner--or what passes for it on the rotating ice cube that is Hoth--he’ll make noises about Jedi this or studying that and yet, not ten minutes after Han’s taken his boots off and cracked one open for the night, there’ll be that tentative rap at the door and a shy cough and what is he supposed to do then, let the kid stand out in the hall and freeze? Of course he lets him in.

And Luke’ll stand there for a second, just inside the door, staring at his boots and pulling at the gnarled sleeves of the giant sweater Red Two knitted for him because the first month they were here, he never stopped shivering even when Han made him sit between two portable heaters and fed him judicious sips of swill whiskey; the sweater, though, bumpy and scratchy as it looks, has helped. Now, Luke only shivers when some numbnuts in the makeshift commissary bitches about freezing his balls off on patrol and then the kid’s right back at it, shaking so hard that Han can hear the knock of his knees.

On nights like that, Luke doesn’t have to come knocking. No, Han’ll tug him from the table full force and frogmarch him to his quarters if he has to, plant him on his one shitty chair and pile all the blankets on he can find and tell him dirty stories from the Coruscant quadrant until Luke’s laughing so hard he forget to be cold and there are actual tears in his eyes.

But most of the time, the kid comes to him and with Han, honestly, that’s just fine.

Oh, he might pretend to be put out, sometimes; might make a wisecrack about Luke spoiling his plans to sidle down to the hanger and make eyes at some X-Wing jockey with dark hair and kiss-me lips and a seriously gorgeous stack. It always make Luke throw something at him, when he says dumb shit like that, because they both know it’s a lie, one that used to make Han feel like he hadn’t really changed, like he was the same ne’er-do-well asshole as he’d always been before some wide-eyed desert boy had sneered at him across a grotty table in a bad Cantina bar but now, he’s deep enough into this thing and smart enough to acknowledge that he’s somebody different. Somebody, now, who hangs out with princesses and gets treated like a hero but mostly, somebody who knows Luke.

Luke, who’ll flop on Han’s bed like he owns it. Luke who’ll reach for the bottle and take it straight of Han’s hands. Luke, who’ll curl against Han’s side like a skinny, lonely cat and ask without a word to be touched.

His heart’s a gravity well every time Luke leans against him, every time he feels the desert wheat of the kid’s hair kissing his jaw, the clutch of a hand on his back. And when the kid tips his head up and breathes against Han’s mouth, after that, there’s no going back.

Beneath the damn sweater, Luke’s body is hot. Hot and damp and smelling of ice, somehow, and fire. In his more poetic moments, Han likes to think that the desert’s stuck in the kid’s blood, that the furnace of those twin suns will always burn within him, no matter how far away from them he flies. He likes to think that Luke will always be like this with him, open and greedy and preening every time Han touches him, bucking with pleasure from just the tips of Han’s fingers learning the lines of his skin. He likes to think that they’ll never leave this place, that they’ll always have time together like this: no Force, no war, nobody trying to kill them, only a bed and a locked door and Luke’s arms around him, the kid’s grin wide against his.

But the universe doesn’t work like that, Jedi or not. Han understands that. So he’ll enjoy what he has now and not worry about the future and make sure that Luke does the same.

It’s easier to keep the kid focused when he’s naked, all that once-golden skin pale and flushed in Han’s sheets and under his gaze. He likes it when Han stares at him, when he lets how much he wants Luke play out on his face. He likes it when Han strips off, too, when he yanks off his shirt and opens his pants and shows Luke how much he wants him there, too. He likes to watch Han stroke himself, likes to roll his hips and not touch his own cock and make low, hungry noises he doesn’t try to hold back.

And this pretty untouched boy, this gorgeous creature than no one on that sandy rock had the sense to even kiss, he likes to bite his lip and shove at Han’s hip until he gets the hint and flips onto his back and then Luke’s between his knees, head lowered and eyes not as he lays a wet kiss on the tip, and another, another, until Han’s babbling and scrabbling and pulling too hard at his hair and then Luke’ll take him in, a groan that goes on forever, his fingers biting into the soft sides of Han’s thighs.

Some nights, the kid’ll suck him until he’s ready to cry, until his balls are so tight that he can’t fucking see, until he feels like if he can’t come, he’ll die. Some nights, he’ll thrash around and say crazy things about forever as Luke works him with his tongue and that felonious mouth and the tips of his fingers that slide back and tease, that promise things Han still can’t bring himself to ask for and that only makes him more desperate and Luke knows it and Luke looks up at precisely the right moment to see him splinter and scream when he comes.

Some nights, though, Luke will lick him until he’s twitching and then stop, a question in his deep blues, and sometimes, those are the best nights.

Han’s never gone to bed with anybody who seems to need it more than Luke, who shoves back so eagerly when he’s finally full that Han feels like he’s the one along for the ride. Every muscle in the kid’s body feels tight with Han’s inside him; Han can see the strain in his neck, in his back. He wants it so bad that sometimes, he comes on that first push, ass spasming around the head of Han’s cock, and then loses it again as he’s pounded, his head bent and his arms straining as Han takes him, sweat beading at the back of his neck and his cries running ragged and when Han gets a hand on him, he’s all sticky from before and hotter than a star heart and this time, there’s no sound when he comes, only a whine and a superheating of air and then all Han can do is fuck him with a desperation that should scare him but it doesn’t--it only makes him more determined to mark Luke up for good and ruin him for every other being in the universe because Luke’s his and he’s Luke’s and that’s the only way that it is.

When he loses it like that, nails cutting into the kid’s hips and the kid panting encouragement, begging in a faded voice for Han to let him have it, sometimes he thinks the word _love_ and sometimes he says it and when Luke says it back, it makes him feel whole and good and so, so fucking warm, like he'll never be cold again, he can't be, can he, ice planet be damned. Not with Luke loving him.

After, he’ll wipe them down and pull Luke close and purr when the kid kisses him, slowly now, sweetly, the fires of his eagerness temporarily banked. Once, Luke would kiss him for a while and then sit up reluctant and reach for his sweater; now, Han holds him tight so he knows that he’s wanted and Luke sighs against his mouth and burrows under the covers and stays and stays and stays.

Luke treats Han’s quarters like his own, like it’s their home, and some nights, once he’s sure Luke’s asleep, Han will whisper a promise to himself, a glimmer of a prayer that maybe one day, after all this shit is over, they can build one of those together, huh? 

Someday, maybe. Someday.


End file.
